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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22594669">oh fortuna</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentaclemonster/pseuds/tentaclemonster'>tentaclemonster</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallen London | Echo Bazaar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Background The Cheery Man/Player (Fallen London), Dubious Morality, F/F, Femslash February, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Infidelity, Kissing, Manipulation, POV Second Person, Voyeurism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:28:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,226</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22594669</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentaclemonster/pseuds/tentaclemonster</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Cheery Man would kill you if he knew where you were tonight and who you were with.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Last Constable/Player (Fallen London)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Femslash February</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>oh fortuna</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the prompt ‘underground casinos’, though I know nothing about gambling so the casino is just something of a useful setting here.</p><p>Mild warning that this fic might be squicky for people who are uncomfortable with anything relating to incest. There’s none in this fic, but the original character kinks on the idea of sleeping with both a father and his daughter in a way that might squick you out regardless. Be aware of that if you read.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Fortuna looks like nothing from the outside but another nondescript door pressed into a brick wall down one side of an alleyway in Spite. At first glance there’s nothing fortunate about it unless one counts the filth there is to be transferred to one’s hand from grasping a door handle that looks as if it hasn’t been washed in years a fortune, but the orphan boy who brought you the message requesting you be here gave you specific directions along with it when you told him you didn’t know what The Fortuna was and you’ve learned to trust him in these matters since coming to London from the surface.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’ve also learned that letting your curiosity make your decisions for you isn’t the best idea, but you suppose you’re not the best pupil you could be in all the subjects the ‘neath has to teach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a cold night and your every breath comes out with a trail of steam in the air that makes it look like you’re smoking one of those smuggled-down cigarillos the Cheery Man sometimes shares with you when he’s in a good mood. Your back is to the wall by the door and you’ve got your coat pulled tight around you, but it doesn’t cover your legs peeking out from the bottom of it and it doesn’t help much to warm your slightly less than adequately clad form in the dress you wear beneath it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’ve been waiting here for about twenty minutes and a few pairs of women have went in or come out of the door next to you in that time, all of them eyeing you with curiosity and some with frank appraisal that you didn’t need to be a mind reader to interpret, but as none of them have been the woman you’re here to meet, you’ve done nothing but look at them back quietly and smile kindly but disinterestedly in return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The longer you wait, the more you’re convinced the Last Constable isn’t going to show and the more you wonder if perhaps it’s a bad idea to have come here all together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> it’s a bad idea. There’s not really any perhaps about it. The Cheery Man wouldn’t like it if he knew, which </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> knew when you lied to him about where you’re going to be tonight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Working,” you told him, with that smile he likes and thinks is just for him and the gentle touch on the arm that he likes and pretends not to most of the time. “Following a lead on a missing lady. I’ll catch her with her pants down and her husband will pay me a pretty penny to break his heart with the news.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d made a suggestion about you staying with him and getting your pants down instead. You’d refrained from jokingly asking him if he was planning for you to break his heart back, went with something less like a knife between the ribs, more flirtatious, more blithe, and you’d left him with a kiss and a promise to stop by tomorrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he knew you were going to meet his daughter tonight, you think he’d probably kill you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re not operating under any delusions that he’s incapable of it. You know his reputation. You know </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’ve fucked him enough times and listened to enough pillow talk to be able to claim that particular honor. You also remember vividly the night he confided in you about his condition and told you he’d feed you your own eyes if you every told anyone in the next breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t a man who deals with betrayal well and you’re fairly certain having a clandestine meeting with his own flesh and blood who’s out to destroy him would fall firmly under the category of betrayal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You imagine when your eyes are gouged out, he’ll do it himself with that knife he’s always playing with. You think he loves you well enough to not outsource your torture to one of his underlings. You don’t know if he’ll be </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do it, but you know that he will. He certainly couldn’t do anything less.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You knew all this beforehand, but still – when the orphan boy brought a message from the Last Constable to your lodgings asking you to meet her outside this place and instructing you to wear something </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the occasion, you hardly hesitated before accepting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe that makes you a bad person or, at least, a disloyal one if disloyalty didn’t automatically make one bad. You’re not sure about whether either of those qualities fit you, but what you do know is that you were curious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Curious about her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Curious about what she wanted from you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You held her message in your hands, your fingers lightly grasping the paper, careful not to crumple it, and your eyes stuck on her curling handwriting – </span>
  <em>
    <span>wear something nice</span>
  </em>
  <span>, in a postscript. You wondered why she would care what you wore, why she wanted you pretty for her. Those wonderings naturally led to you imagining doing things with the Cheery Man’s daughter that you had done with the Cheery Man and you weren’t exactly repulsed by any facet of the idea. The Last Constable is a beautiful woman, competent. She’s like her father in plenty of ways, both physically what with their shared dark hair and dark eyes and in the tenacious nature they both have but which presents itself in different ways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You would be lying, too, if you said you didn’t feel an illicit little thrill at the idea of bedding a man and then going to bed his daughter with the smell of him still on you, with his hand prints still on your skin and the taste of him between your legs for her to taste and not know what it is she’s mouthing at. The thought made something warm inside of you when you first thought it and it makes you warm here now in this cold alleyway, too – and devils’ know you need all the warmth you can get, that’s how damn freezing it is. The danger in knowing exactly how the Cheery Man would react if he knew your thoughts, your plans, only heightens the thrill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe, you think, you’re something of a bad person after all. Bad and disloyal and a little rattly in the head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knowing it isn’t enough to make you feel any guilt, of course, but still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You end up waiting another five minutes in the alleyway, your head tilted back on the bricks and your brain bored inside your skull, before you hear the sound of footsteps approaching from the mouth of the alley. You turn your head in the direction of the sound and see the Last Constable approaching you, looking nothing like she usually does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s wearing a long black coat that you can tell is made out of fur or something equally as soft even in the near dark only illuminated by gaslights, and you catch the briefest glimpse of something sparkly and red beneath it. A dress, you assume, and one that’s nothing as dour as her usual constable’s uniform. Her hair is out of the bun she always wears it in, down and tucked behind her ears to show off two diamond stud earrings she’s wearing, one in each lobe. She wears smokey makeup around her eyes and bright red gloss on her lips and when she finally gets close enough to you, you can smell the scent of perfume on her for the first time – something citrusy and crisp that reminds you of the world above.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks delicious and she smells delicious and you’d truly love nothing more than to have her in this alley right here, right now, to shove her up against the brick wall opposite the one your back is on, rip open her fur coat, hitch up her dress to her waist and sink to your knees to taste her between the legs until she’s screaming so loud her father can hear her all the way at the Medusa’s Head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You regret that you don’t give in to the impulse and give her time to speak because when she opens her mouth, her tone is all business.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I had to make sure I wasn’t followed. The Cheery Man has eyes everywhere and I can never be too cautious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You know this, you don’t tell her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You are the Cheery Man’s eyes, you definitely don’t add – or one set of them, at least, when you feel like it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” you say instead, shrugging like waiting in the cold for so long was nothing. With the Last Constable here now in front of you looking like she does, you suppose it was nothing, really, so long as the rest of the evening continues to prove to be interesting. You tilt your head at the door next to you. “Tell me what it is I’ve been waiting for, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Last Constable nods, brusque. She appreciates getting right to things, you think. Straight-forward. Another way she’s like her father. You wonder if she’s aware of the similarity and how much it kills her if she is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a lead on one of the Cheery Man’s associates who’s proven...difficult to apprehend. I’ve been reliably informed that a lady friend of his works at The Fortuna, right through there, and can tell me where to find him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mentioned The Fortuna in your note, but I still don’t know what it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a club, of sorts. A women’s only establishment with all the gambling, drinks, and usual revelry found in Spite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You raise a brow at her, questioning, before you run your eyes over her in a purposeful way that she can’t help but notice. You imagine you can see her cheeks flushing when she does, but it’s dark enough and cold enough that her skin might just be chapped or it really may be just your imagination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re obviously a woman yourself, Constable. Anyone can see it. What do you need me for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You misunderstand, Madam. It’s a women’s only establishment as in it’s patronized by women who are in the company of other women. Couples only. If I go in alone, I’ll only draw unwanted attention to myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you needed a date.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I needed a decoy, actually – but yes, I suppose you can put it that way. Spite is the Cheery Man’s domain. He has his fingers in every business in this neighborhood. Every criminal in Spite all but worships the ground he walks us and knowing London as I do, I wouldn’t be surprised if a few of them even worship him in truth. Going to this place, asking questions – it’s all dangerous no matter how careful I am. I need someone I can trust to watch my back in case things go wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you trust me to be that person?” you ask her. You can feel your lips aching to a twitch up in a smile that you only just manage to restrain at the thought. You’re amused by it, not despite the fact that you know she’s being nothing but earnest, but because of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Last Constable is quiet for a long moment as she stares at you, searching. You wonder what she’s looking for. You wonder if she can see what’s actually there or if she’s like her father in that regard, too – completely and utterly blind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been a great help to me a time or two already,” she finally says. “Besides, if you wanted to turn me in to the Cheery Man, you’ve had plenty of opportunity to do so, but you haven’t. I think that earns you at least some of my trust.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m flattered that you think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re not lying, either, is the thing. The Last Constable is completely and utterly wrong for putting her trust in you, of course, but you’re pleased that she has all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, you’ve always felt that the gifts you don’t really deserve are the best ones to receive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You push yourself off the wall and take another step closer to her, close enough that you can feel her body heat and the skin of your bare hand held down at your side brushes against the material of her coat – velvet, you mentally correct your earlier assumption, not fur. When you both breathe, the steam of your exhalation mingles with hers, one single white cloud in the cold night air that rises up and dissipates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You tilt your head at the door again. “Shall we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Last Constable raises her chin a fraction and the gaslight illuminates her face enough that you can see that her cheeks are flushed, just a bit. Perhaps her earlier blush hadn’t been a figment of your imagination, either. You flatter yourself by assuming that her flush now has nothing to do with the cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s,” she says, and so you both turn to the door and into The Fortuna you go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The inside of The Fortuna is a fair sight nicer than the outside of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The place is done up in golden tones, shining yellows and whites and cremes. The lighting is brighter than anything you’ve seen since leaving the surface, brighter than the ‘neath ever gets even in the daytime. There’s a bar at one end of the room and gambling tables spread out around the place, plus curling staircases and entryways whose only doors are beaded curtains and the guards who stand by them that lead off only the devil knows where.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The place is packed to near capacity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is not, you notice immediately, a single man in the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead there are only women – most of them wearing their most scandalous dresses, scant slips of fabric that barely cover their chests and asses, but some are wearing suits with trousers and vests and overjackets in an entire rainbow of peacocking colors and a few are even nude, walking about without a care in the world that their most private places are on display. You see human women and rubbery women and even, you think, a few female devils crowded together at one end of the bar, heads bent close together, eyes shifty, whispering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The volume inside The Fortuna is loud with chatter and laughter and the sound of gaming devices spinning and making all sorts of other noise. It smells of cigarette smoke and sweet liquor, sex and perfume. You like all of it immediately, but the fact that the place is a good deal warmer than the frigid alleyway outside strikes you as its most becoming feature for the moment. You start shrugging off your coat and see the Last Constable doing the same, eyeing her as the sparkly red dress she’s wearing is revealed. It’s nowhere near as revealing as the little black dress you have on, but it offers a good view of her cleavage that’s normally hidden beneath her constable’s attire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You feel a frission of desire pulse in you at the soft swell of her breasts peeking out of the dip in her dress. You try to think of the last time you’d touched a woman’s breasts, held them in your palms and ran your fingers over their nipples until they hardened with pleasure, and can only think of touching your own for the Cheery Man’s viewing on those nights when he’s too self-conscious about his injury to take off his trousers for you and let you touch him instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been too long since you’ve been with a woman, you think, if the only woman you can remember being with recently is yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A short-haired young woman in black trousers, a white shirt and black vest approaches you from the side, smiling. You have her pegged as an employee of the establishment even before she asks, “Take your coats for you, ladies?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You and the Last Constable hand over your coats and the woman drifts away, taking them to wherever it is that coats go. You watch the Last Constable out of the corner of your eye as she scans the room, looking for something or, perhaps more accurately, someone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you see your friend?” you ask her, purposefully vague in case anyone is listening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s loud enough and everyone in the room is busy enough that the chances of anyone overhearing you speak even the most blatant of secrets seems unlikely, but you know appearances aren’t everything. The Last Constable said herself that the Cheery Man has eyes everywhere, but you know well enough that he also has ears. Like she also said – you can never be too cautious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head, however, in the negative. You note she’s obviously aware of the possibility of being spied on herself when she replies, “She’s not so much a friend as someone I’ve heard of.  They call her Madame Tyche. They say she can grant wishes to women who ask them of her. I’ve never actually met her before, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Granting wishes? It sounds so...fantastical.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Last Constable stops her scan of the room to look at you then and you see a familiar sort of amusement in her eyes, though it’s not in </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> eyes you’re used to seeing it in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is London,” she says. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> is fantastical.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Point,” you reply, smiling. Your gaze goes back to the bar, or more specifically to the bartender behind it – an absurdly tall blonde woman wearing the same black and white uniform the woman who took your coats had been wearing, currently occupied with pouring a devil a drink. “If you want to meet this Madame Tyche, then maybe we should inquire about her with someone likely to be able to tell us where she is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Last Constable follows your gaze and nods in agreemet. “You’re right. It’s always the bartender who knows everything in a place like this, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice is inflectionless as she says it, but you still find yourself wondering if she’s thinking of another bartender altogether. You haven’t any time to wonder about it for long, though, as the Last Constable is taking you by the hand a second later and leading you through the crowd. You’re a bit surprised by the move, but not so much that it throws you off. You waste no time before interlacing your fingers together with hers, fully enjoying the sensation of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t think you’re the only one, either – you can feel her hand spasm a little in yours at the feeling of your fingers sliding down hers before slotting into place, a shiver that she doesn’t pull away from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The she-devils at the end of the bar pause in their conversation and look at you and the Last Constable with hard, suspicious stares as you approach, but apparently determine you’re no concern of theirs for they look away after a moment and go back to their business, albeit a little more quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bartender also stops what she’s doing, pausing in the act of cleaning a glass out with a white cloth, and gives you and the Last Constable a far more friendly look than the devils had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get you ladies a drink?” she asks, darting her eyes between the two of you. “The Fortuna’s got the best absinthe in Spite. First drink to new customers is free.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’d love that, thanks,” you answer before the Last Constable can because you could already tell by the look on her face that she was about to say no. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as the bartender turns her back to grab the absinthe from the shelf, you squeeze the Last Constable’s hand and shoot her a look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both gestures say the same thing: let me take the lead in this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Last Constable frowns at you, but gives a stiff nod, her way of telling you: fine, but I don’t like it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bartender turns back and you and the Last Constable are both smiling again. She pours out two small glasses of the green liquid and the sharp smell of it wafts up and has your eyes watering even before you pick up your glass and have a sip. The Last Constable, you notice, wraps her hand around her own glass but doesn’t pick it up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s wonderful,” you praise, hot cheeked and breathless like a girl who’s never taken a sip in her life. You’re lying through your teeth, of course, playing pretend. The Cheery Man has better stock that he keeps in his office all for himself and you, when you go up there. Even the watered down absinthe he pours for his customers at the Medusa’s Head is at least on par with what you just drank. You gaze around The Fortuna with wonder that’s as fake as your feelings about the drink before meeting the bartender’s eyes again with a wide pair of your own. “This whole place is wonderful. There’s nothing like this even in Veilgarden. I’m surprised to find such a place in Spite!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bartender’s chest puffs a little – proud woman, you think – and she picks up the thread of conversation you tossed her just as you knew she would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s how bartenders make their living, after all.  Pouring drinks and being their customers’ new best friend, ready to hear all the latest gossip and have leverage on anyone who matters and everyone who doesn’t just handed to them for the price of a listening ear. Most of them never clue in that it’s possible for their customers to game the system and take that information they’ve spent all day listening to right from them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Cheery Man hadn’t when you first came to the Medusa’s Head, at least, and you doubt there’s another bartender in all of the ‘neath who’s as sharp as him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few friends of mine saw there was a need for a place like this and so we pooled our money together and made it. Spite has the cheapest real estate in London and we figured if we worked hard to make a good place, people would come, and we were right,” the bartender says, the pride in her voice obvious and a little nostaligc at whatever sweet memories she’s recalling. She picks up the glass she was cleaning before and goes back to it, but keeps her attention on you as she does. “You two are from Veilgarden, you said?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We live down on Elderwick, yes. My girlfriend –“ and at this you shoot a warm look and a grin at the Last Constable and the bright lights of The Fortuna show you just how pink her blush really is “--heard about this place from a lady at the bookstore – Hammet’s, have you heard of it? She went in looking for some book, it was called...oh, I don’t remember the title! I’m not as much of a reader as her, but they didn’t have it and the woman at the counter told her that there’s a woman at a lady’s club in Spite who can grant you any wish. It all sounded so...</span>
  <em>
    <span>magical</span>
  </em>
  <span> when she came home and told me about it and I insisted we just had to come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Madame Tyche,” the bartender says, smiling as she nods, utterly charmed with you and the complete load of shit you just told her. “She wasn’t one of the founders of The Fortuna, but she’s been with us for a long time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can she really grant wishes?” the Last Constable finally speaks and you’re impressed with the wondrous voice she uses and how much younger it makes her sound, like a little girl in a candy store asking if she can have it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can see the bartender softening a little further at hearing it, too, and you find you’re amused at how adeptly you and the Last Constable are manipulating her together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not magic,” the bartender says, “but she’s very good at getting things done that no one else seems to be able to do. Finding things, finding people, all sorts of tasks. I’m sure if the book you’re looking for is to be found, she’s the one who can find it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is she here tonight?” you ask, making your voice sweet and hopeful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re actually a bit genuinely pleased when the bartender nods and says, “You’re in luck, she is. She has an office in the back, off over there. You can’t miss it. It’s the only room with a door. Just knock and go in, Madame Tyche won’t mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You down the rest of your absinthe while the Last Constable thanks the bartender and then you both go in the direction she pointed to, your empty glass left on the bar with a still full glass right next to it and your hand still clasped in hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re very good at that,” the Last Constable comments idly as you walk as closely next to each other as you can, your bodies brushing together with every step in a way that’s somehow both awkward and enjoyable all at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look at her from the side and can’t tell what she feels from her expression any better than you could from her voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At lying?” you ask her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was thinking of it as acting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Well, you’re not so bad at it yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s part of a constable’s job to act like something they’re not, on occasion, and I’ve had plenty of occasions to learn to be better since I started this investigation. I assume it’s the same for you? Your detective work must require as much discretion as my work does.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You were a liar before you ever came to the ‘neath and stumbled upon a professon here, but you can hardly tell the Last Constable that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, you only incline your head in agreement and say, “On occasion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You come to a stop at the door the bartender pointed out, the only one in The Fortuna that – unlike all the other doorways where nothing but strings of glitzy beads bar the way – does actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> a door in front of it. The Last Constable lets go of your hand at last then and you swear you can still feel the sweat of her hand against your palm even once it’s no longer flush against yours. She raises her fist and knocks on the door, three times in a sharp, quick succession. The sound of the voice calling out from the room the door hides is muffled and barely understandable with the louder noise of the customers of The Fortuna all around them, but you both hear it and take it for an invitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Last Constable opens the door and goes through. You follow after her, closing the door gently behind you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room you enter into isn’t quite what you imagined it would be. You’d expected a similar décor as the rest of The Fortuna or, perhaps, something like Madame Shoshana’s tent which you’ve visited on occasion for both your own work and business for the Cheery Man. You thought this Madame Tyche might work in something with the looks of the inside of a genie’s bottle, only expanded into the dimensions of a normal room. Something gaudy and covered with silks and trinkets that all smelled overwhelmingly of patchouli or perfume.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, the room in front of you reminds you of nothing more than the Cheery Man’s office back at the Medusa’s Head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walls are bare white and the furniture all a lackluster grey. There are cabinets along the walls filled with you couldn’t imagine what and a desk in the center of the room with a chair each both in front of and behind it. Unlike the Cheery Man’s office, there’s no small bed where someone might sleep or two someones might not sleep at all and this office is a fair bit smaller than his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Also unlike the Cheery Man’s office, this one has no Cheery Man behind the desk, but a woman looking up to greet you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s older, but not </span>
  <em>
    <span>old</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the outfit she has on is more like what the Last Constable tends to usually wear more than either of the dresses you both have on now. She has a quill held in one hand and papers of some sort spread out on the desk in front of her, but she doesn’t look angry at being interrupted from whatever she was doing – just curious – and you wonder how many impromptu visits she tends to get from women hoping to have their wishes granted if your appearance hasn’t caused her any surprise or ire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Madame,” the Last Constable greets her, stepping forward until she’s standing behind the empty chair. She makes no move to sit down, though, only continues to stand with her hands clasped behind her back, her spine straight, staring the other woman down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lean back against the door and cross your arms, fine enough with letting her take the lead this time. It’ll be more fun anyway, you think, to watch the Last Constable work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve come to inquire about an acquaintaince of yours,” the Last Constable continues, “A Mr. Wainwright. I was told you might be able to tell me where to find him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Madame Tyche gently puts down her quill and leans back in her seat, looking up at the Last Constable to meet her eyes. She still doesn’t look concerned or at all ruffled by this line of questioning and something about how unaffected she is has your arms uncrossing and lowering down to your sides, your palms itching and you suddenly hyper aware of the weight of your pistol where you have it strapped to your thigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman has no weapons near her that you can see and her hands are in plain sight, but still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can never been too cautious, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dare I ask who sent you my way or is that too foolish a question for me to waste my breath on?” Madame Tyche asks and when the Last Constable says nothing back, her silence and whatever expression she has on her face answer enough, Madame Tyche’s lips curl up in a tiny, little smile. “That’s what I thought. Alright, then. Yes, I know where Alfie is. Might I know who’s asking for him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter who I am,” the Last Constable says. “I’ve heard you’re in the business of getting people what they want and what I want is an address.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you also heard that I’m in the business of doing things for free, dear girl? Because if so then I’m afraid whoever gave you my name has left you woefully uninformed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Last Constable’s head tilts at the woman and you can only imagine the way she’s sizing her up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence creeps on for too long and you start to feel restless. You push yourself away from the door, immediately drawing Madame Tyche’s eyes to you, and walk forward until you come to a stop next to the Last Constable, your shoulders brushing against hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it you want?” you ask Madame Tyche and if the Last Constable is angry with you for interjecting yourself into this, she gives no sign of it. “Money? Souls?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My usual payment is nothing so crass,” she answers, looking you right in the eyes. “Women come to me for help and in exchange, they help me by spending a little time upstairs taking care of clients I send up to them. For a few hours or a few days. Longer, sometimes, if what they want is of a particularly high value. I keep the entirety of of the fee their clients pay to fuck them, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” you repeat. Nothing about this surprises you, really, considering that this is Spite. What’s a little sex sold for favors, after all, when you can walk down the street and buy body parts chopped up to order? Considering the Last Constable’s silence, you imagine that she’s no more surprised than you are, but you can still feel her standing tense next to you and you know that unsurprised isn’t the same thing as accepting. “And what payment would you ask for in exchange for information on a man’s whereabouts?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re already plotting in your head the best way to torture the location of the man out of Madame Tyche as you ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not that you have any moral conniptions about prostitution or even in fucking someone in exchange for something else, obviously – your entire relationship with the Cheery Man is proof of just how willing you are to do that for your own benefit – but you do have very serious personal conniptions with selling yourself short or for the behest of someone else. You don’t think you’re being egotistical to think that your cunt is worth more than the address of a man who might know something that could help put away the one person in all of London who you might actually suffer for seeing sent to Blackgate. In another circumstance where you needed something else from Madame Tyche, you might pay her accordingly, but not in this one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And as delightful as the thought of the Last Constable whoring herself out to one woman after another is to you, you know that she would never agree to do such a thing in a million years no matter how badly she wants to see her father put away. She’d have to be dragged kicking and screaming and chained to the bed for it to happen and as lovely an image as that is on its own, you know it would kill all of her trust in you immediately if you let it happen and you did nothing to stop it, and you’re not quite done with the Last Constable just yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily for Madame Tyche’s continuing good health, however, the woman doesn’t push for you to pay in the usual way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Typically I’d send one of you up for a few hours and have you gone by closing,” Madame Tyche says in a thoughtul kind of way, “but to be perfectly honest, Alfie has been a problem for me ever since he got back to London. Coming around asking for money, a place to stay, and just being a general pest about things. If you can...</span>
  <em>
    <span>convince</span>
  </em>
  <span> him that he’s better off leaving Spite after you get whatever you want from him, I’d consider that almost payment enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Almost?” the Last Constable asks. “What else do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about...” Madame Tyche’s smile grows into a grin as she looks between you and the Last Constable, doing nothing to hide her amusement. “How about the two of you kiss for me? I think I’d like seeing that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can feel the Last Constable startle next to you, a restrained little jolt of surprise you only feel because you’re standing so close together, and you find yourself sharing Madame Tyche’s amusement despite yourself along with a warmth pooling low in your belly at the thought of kissing the Last Constable in front of an audience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One kiss?” you ask and you can see the Last Constable turning to you in surprise out of the corner of your eye, but you don’t turn to look at her – not yet. “That’s it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it,” says Madame Tyche, “but make it good. I did used to love Alfie once, a long time ago. I’d hate to think I sold him out for nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nearly laugh, but don’t. Instead you turn to the Last Constable and take in the sight of her wide, surprised eyes and the hot flush on her cheeks. Her lips are more red than they were in the alleyway and still shiny from whatever gloss she put on them. She looks, you think, absolutely kissable. Kissable and fuckable and a thousand other things besides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t hesitate before closing the distance between you and putting your mouth on hers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She startles slightly at first, but doesn’t pull back and she obliges to open her mouth for you after a few seconds to let your tongue slip inside and lap at the roof of her mouth, her teeth, caressing her own tongue. You make it sloppy and filthy, long and deep, and your hands reach out to grab her, first going to her hips and then around to reach her ass, squeezing it before bringing your hands in a rough path up her sides and then back down again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kisses you back, inexpertly but not badly, and you can hardly hold back a groan at the feeling of her tongue trying to mimic the motions of yours. You’re about to forget where you are and try to stick your hand up her dress to grasp her by the cunt and slide your fingers inside what you’re sure will be a hot hole, already wet for you, when the Last Constable finally jerks her head back and stumbles back with it, panting harshly, her eyes dark and staring at you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stare back at her for a moment before licking your lips and bringing your hand up to pointedly wipe your mouth, your fingers coming away red from the lipstick she left imprinted on you but you hardly care about that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn to Madame Tyche who you see looking you with her own eyes dark with arousal, a flush high in her cheeks as well but not nearly so dark as the one the Last Constable is wearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The address?” you prompt her, and to her credit, she does understand immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Madame Tyche nods and picks up her quill again before grabbing a blank piece of stationery. She’s shaking her head, the slack line of her mouth going amused again, as she writes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pity you two didn’t need something more,” she says once she’s done writing and has put the quill down. “I could have made a fortune off of you upstairs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She holds out the paper, but before you can say or do anything, the Last Constable is reaching out and all but ripping it from Madame Tyche’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not for sale,” she bites out before spinning around and turning to head out the door without another word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nod your head in the direction of Madame Tyche before turning to follow the Last Constable out. It’s petty, maybe, but you don’t bother closing the door behind you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You and the Last Constable collect your coats without saying a word, either to each other or to the young woman from before who hands you the coats she previously collected. You leave The Fortuna quickly after that, having to pick up the pace to keep up with the Last Constable, but you don’t mind. The air is even colder now than it was before and the little exertion it takes to keep up warms you just a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You walk that way down Doubt Street for about five minutes, magnanimously allowing the Last Constable to feel whatever it is she’s feeling, before you ask her, “Are you angry with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stops immediately and you stop, too, turning to her. Her jaw is clenched and her breath is coming out of her nose in steaming lines that make her look like a dragon blowing out smoke. Her lipstick is a mess and her cheeks are still flushed and she’s still beautiful here like this. Your body thrums with the desire to throw her down and finish what you started in Madame Tyche’s office right on the filthy ground, but you restrain yourself. You’re not an animal, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not angry with you,” the Last Constable says after a moment, but even if it’s not with you, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> sound angry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Madame Tyche, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She goes still, her mouth twisting in a grimace, and she nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate people like her,” she tells you, finally turning to look you fully in the face. “People who take advantage of others who just want help, who make a profit from it. She can think that it’s all about fair payment all she wants, but she </span>
  <em>
    <span>sells</span>
  </em>
  <span> people, for fuck’s sake. God, not even my father---”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her words cut off then and she pales like she’s gone sick at the fact that she’d spoken them. She looks shaky in that moment, vulnerable, almost afraid, and if you’d thought her strength was attractive then it’s nothing compared to how she looks in a moment of weakness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes you want to tear her apart and glut on everything inside of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take a step closer to the Last Constable, slow and careful, and she watches you do it with something like pleading on her face, like she’s begging you to soothe whatever it is that’s hurting her. You approach until your body is pressed along hers and your hands go under her coat to rest lightly on her sides before drifting slowly up, coming to a stop at the top of her ribcage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shudders against you and you can feel your cunt throbbing with anticipation between your thighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a good person, you know,” you tell her, and it’s not even a lie. “You’re nothing like Madame Tyche or the Cheery Man. Hell, I think you might be the only good person in all of Spite sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Last Constable’s eyes flutter at that like they want to close, but they don’t. She just stares at you, her eyes dark. Hungry. Desperate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t true,” she says, voice so quiet it would have been impossible to hear back in The Fortuna. “You’re a good person, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smile at what you know is a lie and lean forward to kiss her again, soft this time, gentle, nothing like the way you’d kissed her back in Madame Tyche’s office. Her mouth parts into the kiss but you don’t slide your tongue between them, you only lick at them a little before pulling away. You rest your forehead against hers after, your breaths mingling between you hot on each other’s faces, your noses brushing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me take you home,” you say to her, and you can tell by the way she shudders against you again that she knows you have no plans on simply dropping her off at her door before heading back to your own lodgings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, a barely there movement but an agreement all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she says. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your hands slide down her body again before they leave it and just as she had done in The Fortuna, you take her hand in yours and this time it’s the Last Constable who interlaces your fingers together. She leads you down the street, headed to her lodgings and you follow her, thinking of all the things you could do to her until morning when it would be time to go as the Cheery Man expected you back then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your body is flush hot with arousal for the entire walk as you think of kissing the Cheery Man hello tomorrow with the taste of his daugher’s cunt still fresh on your tongue.</span>
</p>
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